Mr. Whoever You Are:

There's a girl. She's tall. She has brown hair. Brown eyes. She's beautiful. She's not perfect. Heaven knows that. She knows that. And she's okay with it. Because honestly, who wants to be perfect? Prefect is boring. Everyone has to have their faults.

There's a girl. The one I've been talking about. She works at a small grocery store. She's a hard worker. Probably one of the hardest workers on shift. And yet, they all take her for granted, even though, if asked, they'd all say they don't. It's a lie. They use her to get the hardest work done. And actually. She doesn't care.

This girl. She's not a clubbing type of girl. She doesn't like heavy crowds, or flashy lights and loud music. No. Unlike all the other girls at work, she prefers to go home. She enjoys soft music. Soft lights. Maybe even candle lit rooms. She doesn't need the rose pedals. Nor does she need the dinner and the movie.

The girl, all she asks for is a dance. Someone to spin her around on the dance floor softly. Slowly. Slowly. She likes to come home, after clocking out late at night from her job. She takes off her long black warm jacket, tossing it over the back of the sofa.

She'll turn, and see him in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, a small smile on his face, which brightens as she smiles as well. The two embrace softly. She silently wish it would last forever. She whispers in his ear;

Take me away from here, Mr. Whoever you are.